Do Over
by Acta Est Fabula
Summary: Time travel fic. There're major changes, so the Universe it's based on is also 'alternate.' No pairing.
1. Chapter 1

A.N. Whatever the reason, I may not be able to complete it -and my ff-writing trend says I won't-; don't tell me I didn't warn you.

Ch. 1

This was the first day Harry had 'come back' from a future that had no need for a Harry Potter. He had done his duty to the letter and was duly cast aside. His wife had cheated on him when he was away fighting a prolonged, low intensity war; his children were afraid of him because of whom he had to become; his friends refused to talk with him as the little common ground they had left was reduced to subjects related to the war as it progressed in this future. Something was wrong in this future; so, he had decided to fix it all; friendship, familial bonds, relationship, all of it.

Not right away, though. _Something_ had awakened him from his feather-light slumber-- out of necessity than a conscious choice previously. He grasped the handle of his trusty wand that was habitually sheathed between the mattress and the right-side rail just in his reach and held it to his side as he rose from the bed as silently as possible. He checked the street from the barred window first-- it was empty save for a stray dog from the size of the figure stalking in Mr. and Mrs. #7's garden. Then he walked over to the door. Wand still ready at the side to be sprung into action, he opened the door silently, not neglecting to listen through it first. The narrow corridor that connected the bedrooms and the bathroom was devoit of any life. He ignored the shiver his bare feet and chest meeting the early hours' harsh cold sent through his skinny body and moved on to the next door, which was suspiciously ajar. He looked for any movement from the slight opening-- there was none. Then he strained his ears to hear anything out of the ordinary-- only the expected soft snoring from Dudley.

Harry skipped the bathroom in favor of checking out the master bedroom as the latter was a more likely target for a malevolent deed.

Through the door, Harry could hear his uncle's heavy snores and his aunt's light sniffs. He opened the door silently. Vernon and Petunia were fast asleep and nobody else was in the room. He heard a gurgling sound from his uncle as he was inspecting the vanity mirror and he turned back to the bed. Uncle Vernor's sloom was interrupted by his need to breathe, it seemed. As Vernon's unfocused eyes fell on him by the door, he made a universal gesture of silence by laying his forefinger across his lips and then held his hand to Vernon to stop any movement from the man which might alert anybody in the house. Harry backed out of the room and shut the door behind him.

Harry took a deep breath to calm the nerves that had arisen because of the yet unfruitful search and began his descend from the staircase to the main floor of the house. It didn't take any more than searching the upper floor and proved just as unfruitful. He checked the front and back doors; both were locked. Windows were tightly shut and bolted as he had left them. There was nothing in sight when he looked out -even the stray dog had left #7s' garden. He tried to decide if anything was out of the ordinary from what he could tell out of the memory he had before going to bed. Nothing looked disturbed. He re-checked all the locks and bolts. With an uneasy mind and heart did Harry return to his room-- sleep was a long way off.

Harry fished out an old but clean sock and set on cleaning and polishing the wand that had served him well countless times, saved his ass more times than he could count. Once, twice, three times over he cleaned and polished, yet he wasn't ready to sleep just yet. Something was disturbing his sleep. Had it been two days before, he could have sworn that it was a Death Eater just outside, plotting an ambush, but they weren't even active yet. They would stay dormant for another year even if everything should play out the same way they had previously-- that wasn't even a probability let alone one that deserved consideration. Maybe his arrival had set into motion things that sped up the process? Or was it another kind of Dark activity?

His dark brooding was halted with the door opening cautiously. Vernon walked in, with his double-barrel shotgun -repaired or replaced after the encounter with Hagrid- in hand. "Anything _abnormal,_ boy?" he asked in an odd voice.

Harry shook his head, not moving his eyes from his wand.

Vernon nodded his head in acceptance and left without saying anything else, but Harry couldn't find the strength in himself to ponder on this 'abnormal' behaviour; it was almost dawn and sleep was a ship at the horizon, passing him by.

---

Harry was in a damn foul mood, understandably. Even the menial job of cooking the breakfast -which he could probably do even in his sleep- was frustrating him in its banality. He was yet to conceive a course of action other than the vague 'don't let the future happen again.' Oh, he had learned of a lot that he could have done better throughout the course of his life: like how to protect himself better against a basilisk -which was not necessary at this point in time,- or how to aim at a fleeing rat, conversely, but winning against Lord Voldemort would require a much more intricate plan than doing the best he could, crossing his fingers and praying for the best. He _had_ won, there was no mistake about that part, but it was a win for the sake of winning; no price had remained for him to take afterwards other than a mockery of a life.

The sizzling of the meat jolted him into reality of his situation; he was supposed to be cooking the breakfast and it would simply not do to burn them in the process. He served the dishes promptly as the wait would get unbearable for the two third of the male population in the house, and consequently, the remaining one third.

"Well, enjoy your breakfast." Harry said and sat down to drink his tea from a very big, un-British-like cup as much time efficiently as possible while trying not to seem rude-- just like how he liked to refuel himself for the day, but something, namely the constant 'mom, there's no salt in it,' or 'dad, can I get this, and this, and this,' or 'hey, pass the syrup,' whining coming from directly across him in a manner that was quite irritating. He made very quick work of the cup in his hand just to have a reason to pull his wand to summon the pot to himself and effectively shut the boy up but then remembered the underage magic monitors that would put him in quite a position. At least -one saving grace- he had a reason to leave: replenishing his cup.

Harry had had enough of the high pitched, screeching, whiny voice by the time he was back at the table, and he hit the table with his open palms to create as much noise as possible and pushed his chair with the back of his thighs. He was leaning over the table towards his cousin, though his stature was not near impressive enough to intimidate anyone. The murderous glint in his eyes must have been noticed by his cousin, nevertheless, because the next moment, Dudley recoiled back in his seat. "Eat your breakfast!" Harry hissed in the same high pitched tone as his cousin, -a child's tone of voice,- and made a hasty retreat -with his cup in his hands- to his room before punishment was dished out for his audacity.

The next minute found Harry fuming in his room, nursing yet another bruise from a fall; he was still getting used to these shorter limbs. His wand had been polished to the point that if it were flat, he could have used it as a mirror. There was nothing to do but to ponder on why a whiny little boy had aggravated him so. His own children used to be able to rouse that emotion readily but he felt no familial connection with Dudley.

Silence is bliss indeed; that there was no whiny brats in his hearing range was all he could've hoped for right at this moment. But every good thing had to come to an end. So with a feeling of dread did he finish his second cup of tea and after claiming whatever Wizarding currency he had left from the previous year, along with his Gringott's key, descend the stairs. He threw a hasty fare-thee-well for the benefit of whoever was listening and cared and escaped the building.

First order of business after his hasty escape was to find a secluded road and call for the Knight Bus; it would simply not do to just disappear into thin air tracable only by the ministry's devices as barely a flash of magic. Nobody probably would notice as there would almost always be one flash such as that at any given time -appearing and disappearing too fast to notice,- but if his disappearance were to be noticed, some difficult questions were bound to arise-- questions he would be hard put to answer such as '_where in the hell have you learned how to apparate?'_

A phanthom spike ran through his head in this empty street he had chosen to call for the bus, and with the spike came revelations about his predicament just as he raised his wand. He had not been transported into the past and conveniently de-aged; no, the spell he had cast was far from it, he _remembered_, even though he had no memory of any forgotten or not-remembered memories previous to that moment. He had transported his memories in time, somehow, and implanted them into this body, conveniently _doing something_ about any previous memory this body might have had in order for them not to interfere with his line of thinking. And _he had a plan..._ Even though he had no idea on how to implement it in his current state and the general lack of opportunities that was the fate of the youth. The feeling of the phanthom spike increased as the remaining holes in his memory were filled in completely-- or was it 'completely?' He had not any notion of those holes being there in the first place. He rubbed his nose which had began to tickle and saw the blood on the backside of his hand. The sudden blast that announced the Knight Bus' arrival was the proverbial last drop; first a dizziness hit him heavily, then his consciousness faded to a comforting black in which there was no pain, phanthom or otherwise.

---

Harry woke up to the smell of cleaning material -magical cleaning material, to be exact. He felt far too groggy to make out if he was at Saint Mungo's or Hogwarts. He opened his eyes to a darkened room then sat up on the bed and leaned his back on the headboard. The drapes were closed keep the moonlight out though some soft, white light filtered in to illuminate the presumably soft, white beards of Professor Dumbledore who was peacefully slooming in an armchair by his side.

This was the part he was dreading most, probably: to see his 'had been dead more than two decades' mentor alive. What could he say to the man that would not bring forth the disappointed look to which an angry, even furious one would be preferable? He had selfishly sent his memories back in time to wipe his younger self's memories just to... what, exactly?

While Harry was raking his brains to find a plausible excuse, Dumbledore stirred and opened his eyes. A gnarled hand righted the half-moon spectacles that had been hanging from a crooked nose precariously. "It's most pleasant to see you unharmed, my boy! You've given us quite the scare!" Dumbledore exclaimed with an indulgent smile. He had a warm radience that made Harry smile in spite of the situation. "I have to ask, though: what were you doing outside?"

Harry's insides squirmed with guilt; he had never got over the feeling that Dumbledore's suggestions were to be followed to the letter no matter what. "I- Sirius Black- I wanted to be ready, professor-- if our paths ever crossed." Double meaning... Good...

"Not by forcing your paths to cross, I hope?" Dumbledore admonished Harry lightly.

"No! I just-- It's not like that..." Harry couldn't explain that he was planning to go behind Dumbledore's back to get a few vital supplies. He felt like a schoolboy waiting for the verdict after being caught doing something childish and mischevious.

"Harry," Dumbledore began, "I'll give you a secret. Even though my position as the Headmaster of Hogwarts requires impartiality, I care about you on a personal level. Let me assure you, nothing you might say or do would be judged from a Headmaster's point of view."

Harry, staring at the white material of the covers, confessed to his plan, "I wanted to get a wand that I could use outside of Hogwarts... Maybe buy a few artifacts..." He could feel the blood rushing up to his head, turning his cheeks crimson in contrast to his fair skin.

Dumbledore turned to look out the window that was still covered by the two-piece curtain. "Ah! The temptation of the forbidden... although I imagine your reasons were of a more serious variety." He sighed deeply. "I've come across a quaint volume of Muggle literature -you wouldn't believe how imaginative they are- and I wish to quote a passage to you:" Here he turned back at Harry and looked somberly into his eyes, as if trying to convey a deeper meaning with his mere gaze, "ask and ye shall receive," and he produced a wand from the folds of his robes, within the blink of an eye, and held it out to Harry handle first. "One word of advise, though: be very careful with how you use this wand; it's said to be a powerful artifact."

Harry grasped the Elder Wand reverently-- the instrument of Death hidden under the guise of simplicity.

"Now that I've killed the two birds you were after with one stone, so to speak, -crushed any chance my lions might have had as it is- and presented you with them, I should allow your relatives some time with you; they've been most distressed since they heard of the incident."

Harry was bewildered by the ridiculous statement that was conveyed in a 'matter of fact' tone but didn't voice his poisition in order not to get caught in the act. "S-sure, professor." He said, then he asked as an afterthought, "When am I going to see you again?"

"Whenever you wish, my boy!" exclaimed Dumbledore joyfully, "After all, I'm but an owl away..." His eyes had an inner brilliance that rivalled any before it. Dumbledore left it at that and walked out of the room -a room at Saint Mungo's, now that Harry took a better look around,- as regal as ever.


	2. Chapter 2

Ch. II

"What the fuck!" Harry let out gut wrenching laughs with that exclamation. Dursleys had come to visit him with seemingly the most 'magic' costume they could get for a masquerade: Petunia had a witch costume complete with the wart at her chin; Vernon was wearing a black robe and a wizard's hat; Dudley, who had an almost-phobia of anything chromatic, had a Harvard crimson robe with golden cuffs and neck. His sudden mirth made him forget even to question the reason for their presence.

A scowling Vernon Dursley chastising him with a 'Language, boy!' was the icing on a very delicious and colorful cake.

Harry said, "Well, no matter," when his laughs became mere giggles, "you didn't need to come all the way here- see? I'm okay." He held his arms to the side in order to assuage their worries.

"That witch doctor said you should stay here for a while longer; something must be off!" Petunia insisted.

"Yes," Harry assented, "something is _terribly_ wrong." He waved the Elder Wand he had never dropped from his hand since getting it and created a screen obscuring everyone's view of each other, then flicked it to change the Dursleys' clothes to something Muggle. "Now it's less weird; I wouldn't dream of changing your robes though, Dudley; they're 'fabulous!'"

"Now if you wouldn't mind, could you check me out?"

But his words fell on deaf ears. Three sets of eyes, big as saucers, were staring at him relentlessly -at the wand in his hand, to be more exact. "Oh, this?" He twirled the wand in his hand feebly, for his movements were still awkward. "Just a gift from Professor Dumbledore. Now- seeing a healer, checking me out, you know? If you don't mind?"

With a gruff 'Right,' Vernon Dursley was wobbling off to presumably find a healer.

There were only three occupants left in the room. The only female in the group was, as the fairer of the genders is wont to, more receptive. "Is there anything more to 'something' being wrong, Harry?" she inquired gently.

It was worrysome to see geniune worry in the eyes of Petunia Dursley towards Harry himself. Civility to some extent, he could have accepted and moved on- actual affection? That was not right, somehow. The buoyant air dispersed when the grim reality invaded his mind: he was somewhere, or some _time_, he was not supposed to be.

Soon Vernon Dursley was back with a healer, though; so, Harry had a reason not to dwell on things that made him far too uncomfortable for his liking. Even if he was somewhere he ought not be, he would find a way to make it work- he always had. Firstly, anyhow, he ought not be in a goddamn hospital!

As they walked through the corridors, memories of another lifetime returned from where they were buried: people recovering from powerful curses, some not recovering from permanent ones, others not even retaining enough sanity to function in daily life, others yet not recovering at all...

Three generations had fought the same war. Harry remembered running in the very same corridor he was walking down with Lily, his precious Lily in his arms bleeding from an opportunistic curse meant for himself. Here in this elevator they had lost Macmillan from a werewolf bite that resisted any attempt to heal it as it chimed 'First Floor: Creature-Induced Injuries.'

The reception was where someone in the crowd had taken a very good aimed shot at some poor person whose name he couldn't remember and felled him just like that. The perpetrator had never been caught- not that anybody had looked for him good enough, anyway. The Order and the Death Eaters were left to their machinations for the most part, as long as death toll didn't climb too high its quota of one or two monthly. The Ministry had been a battleground to be won for both parties for some time, -a flight of fancy, if you will,- but the idea was dropped after it was obvious that with enough influence from both parts over it, both sides would be left well alone to operate as they wished. So it had been until Voldemort's fall after a decade.

In his memories, the mannequin that welcomed people in was an even sorer sight than was normal; both arms ripped off, head barely hanging on, and the eyelid that was supposed to give the signal to move inside was only able to twitch. The magic that was holding things and places together was beginning to wane, Harry remembered.

As his mind wandered to how it had been, his hand dutifully checked his pockets for things he was used to finding inside, but could not. He needed an All-Opener pocket knife, for example; that thing had been put into good use more times than he cared to admit -and not all were life and death situations. This time, a pleasant memory played in his mind's eye: Ginny and he walking down a distinctly Muggle street, then kissing, himself pushing the blade between some random door and the stile for a... Well, getting excited was surely normal for a teenager regardless of the place, but it could turn into a potentially embarrassing situation. He forewent perusing that traing of thought.

"Vernon, dear," came Petunia's shrill voice, "we may need to stop at a pet shop; it seems we need to buy another canary."

After a moment of non-cognition, Vernon grunted a "What now, Boy?"

Harry was most certainly not about to spill his guts about this matter, least of all to these people for that matter. He decided to change the subject into something that he had wanted to talk about, "That doesn't matter, but there's something I need to tell you."

"Oh, do tell, Harry!" Petunia exclaimed. Harry could envision her clapping her hands in excitement. Her rationale was beyond him, though.

"Right... Well, I'm not who you think I am." said Harry.

"And...?" probed Vernon.

"And... that's it... Do with it what you will. Oh, one more thing: thanks for bailing me out of the St. Mungo's." He gave a nod as fare-thee-well and walked off towards the general direction of the Leaky Cauldron on Charing Cross Road.

As he approached the wizard-populated area, Harry began to get the peculiar feeling of being watched, followed again. He had the Death Stick in his left sleeve; he grasped the handle with his right hand and began to search inconspiciously for anybody suspicious in the shadows and crowds. He could see none. He had been itching for a fight and try out this new, younger body in a real situation. Surely he would have a much shorter reaction time- kids were supposed to be like that. The only thing he had to put to right was his awkward movements. He felt like a teenager having a growth spurt again. Well, he had not had much of a spurt in his time but still it was the same feeling.

Following a rather quiet pass through the Leaky Cauldron, Harry tapped the correct bricks to form the archway into the Diagon Alley. The atmosphere was exactly as it was supposed to be: extravagant in a magical way, cheerful, colorful; puffs in every shade, fireworks going off at random times. This normalness was a sharp contrast to the dreary, paranoia inducing Diagon he was used to.

Harry shrugged the rather grim feelings and ventured forth, ready to face this unfamiliar gaity. The past was the past, after all... but he kept expecting something even as he entered the great portals of Gringott's the Citadel, as he rode the train towards the bowels of Earth, and even as he shut the door of his unpenetrable vault. "Why am I here?" he asked to the empty space between himself and the hill of golden coins. After that, he levitated enough money into his pocket to buy his school supplies and a few extra odd and end that might catch his fancy and left the underground for the daylight...

...But the moment he left the possibly feet thick silver doors of the goblin establishment, all the glitter of gold and gems, all the flickering light of the candle flames were gone, and not to be replaced by the steady stream of sun rays. It was pitch black all around. In the middle of the day, it was as alarming a situation as any he had found himself in, so he released the black wand of death from his left hand inside the sleeve into his waiting right hand and brandished it into the darkness, whatever it may hold. As a mishappen shape began to take form a few meters in front of him, Harry felt a spell coming from his back- a very powerful spell because its approach made every hair on his body stand on its end like the air all around him had been charged up. A jet of light passed him by at such a speed that, had he been the target, he would never be able to make it out of its way even though he had felt it coming. The spell reached where the figure was forming, then dissipated into brilliant sparks that flew in every direction. Harry had never seen such an impressive firework, let alone a spell imitating one and its audial aspect did rival the visual. In that 'blink of an eye' moment, all he was able to think was 'Dumbledore!' Then two more spells hit the now seemingly humanoid form. The thing dwelling in the darkness staggered and seeing this, Harry chanced a look at his helper even though two more of the mishappen shapes appeared behind it.

True to his deduction, when he turned around to look at the source of the three powerful spells, there stood Dumbledore in his gaudy robe and wizard's hat, both purple with the robe embroidered in orange seemingly randomly. Despite his attire, even at such a short glance, there was something that screamed 'don't try me' about the man; a current of magic was fluttering the hems of his robe and his long, white hair and beard as if to prove the power he commanded. The sight made his hairs stand on end again, but this time not from the built up static charge, but from the awe, admiration, and inspiration; it was synonymous with hope.

Dumbledore walked towards Harry still raining spell after spell at the creatures. In the mean time, Harry had regained his composure and began to add his own spells to the mix while back stepping to where Dumbledore was. Harry heard Dumbledore from behind, "Careful, Harry: they can use magic, too." As if the things were waiting that as their cue, three neon-green spells left their bare hands. Harry evaded the one coming towards him but in the process lost his footing and fell on his side. He instinctually barrel-rolled to evade any other spell that might have been aimed at him, which was unnecessary. He saw, as he rolled, Dumbledore executing a twirl that would have been more appropriate on the dancing floor than at a battleground to avoid the two spells coming towards him and then somehow intensify his own spells and the interval at which he was sending them. When he rolled to his other side, he could see the shower of sparks they were creating. The three creatures were completely on the defense now.

Harry heard Dumbledore over the roar of the intense rain of spells, "Stand up, Harry, and stand either behind, or beside me!" He heard an urgency in the tone of voice and stood up straight as he could and stood right beside Dumbledore to cast his own spells of a repertoire that had higher than average lethality rate. More and more incantations poured out of his lips as the clash continued, and more and more Harry lost himself in the frenzy. Casting spells amlified by the single most powerful wand on earth- it had an addictive quality to it. The past, the future were all but non-existent, and all that mattered was to keep casting, to keep fighting for the now. He kept on fighting even though there was a smell of burnt flesh in the air- a smell that would make him at least check for injuries, but this was Dumbledore! Who could lend such a blow to the man whose mere presence was enough to win a fight before it even begun?

Then the creatures were gone in a mist just as the way they had appeared. Harry continued his barrage of spells, though, salvo after salvo. He didn't want to stop, ever. He saw rather than felt the backhand hitting his face and forcing his sight to the side. Dumbledore's lips were moving but the sounds failed to register in his adrenaline addled psyche. Then the burnt flesh smell invaded his nostrils a second time, and this time, he realized that it was his own arm that had somehow been charred to cinder. Fawkes had already begun shedding his precious tears on it to heal all the damage from his shoulder to his hand. Strangely, though, he still felt nothing even though he was staring at it except for a tingling sensation of the renewal that came from the phoenix tears. He now realized that the darkness was gone and the crowds around them looked right through them with unseeing eyes.

Harry shouts in an eerily cheerful way, "You've made quite nice enemies of these goddamn monsters!"

Dumbledore's reply comes as serene as possible, "Oh, but that statement needs a little correction: it's they who have made quite a nice enemy of myself."

"Regardless," Harry continued unfazed, "you didn't need to get attacked, too, you know? I think I could handle them."

Dumbledore frowned. "Once again you're wrong, Harry. They attacked you, but in my case, it was mere self-defence on their part. Lack of objective perception oft times betrays a lazy mind. Was I expecting too much of you?"

Being chastized the second time in a row, Harry did stop to think. "Let's chuck it up to the adrenaline-high, yeah?" That wasn't satisfactory even to his own ears, so he explained a little more, "There was this time, you see... We're cornered, three buddies of mine and I- supressed, actually, would be a better word." Then he waited for some sort of reaction on Dumbledore's face. Receiving none, he looked in askance.

Dumbledore was as unsurprising as ever. He slowly produced two of those acidic, lemon flavored candies of his and threw one at Harry.

Harry, for his part, was quick to react with the hand on which Fawkes wasn't shedding tears, but missed the candy by inches. It hit his forehead rather spectecularly just after he realized his mistake. He did trap the offending candy between his hand and forehead, however, and proceeded on to suck on it.

"Now now, Harry, such a glaringly bad hand to eye coordination is not becoming of a star Chaser... To answer your question, -the one you didn't ask, to be exact,- when you live as long as myself, there're precious few that remains surprising, unfortunately." His eyes staring right through. "But now that you're in no immadiate need of medical attention, why don't we take this to my office where you could take as long as you wish? My bones aren't what they used to be."

Harry looked at his perfectly stretching and flexing arm and hand. It was a far cry from the charred mass that looked it would turn into dust at a mere touch. "Good job, boy!" Harry praised Fawkes and, just to make sure the foul tempered bird was thoroughly pacified, he corrected a few misplaced feathers on the wings.

Dumbledore interjected, "it will never look the same but we have to count our blessings, sometimes, don't we?" He then held out a handkerchief that appeared out of nothingness, "Oh, and you might want to clean your nose; it's bleeding."

A silent hour's travel, first on the Knight Bus, then on foot through the grounds of Hogwarts and the magnificant castle itself, found them sat on two comfortable chairs in front of the Headmaster's desk.

"Rİght then." Harry began to recount the story he could remember so sharp, as if it had happened the day before. "So, we're pinned down; I'm behind a pillar and the other three aren't even in the room. These supposedly easy targets we're to take into custody turn out to be war hardened Death Eaters- foolish mistake on our parts to underestimate our opponents but, whatever. Now, two of the Death Eaters are chipping away at the pillar I'm behind, and another one is blasting at the only route the guys can come in to help- it also just so happens to be my only exit.

"One thing, just to be clear: we were war hardened, too, and Aurors to boot, but outside the office, we were just regular people. At least those I had with me were. Although I had been doing some outside work, too, it was the first time any of us had to fight his way through, you know?

"The Death Eaters had to have been as inexperienced as us at the time because none of them even tried to move to get a clear shot. Not that they needed to; my arms were bleeding and each second I accumulated more and more wounds from all the chipped masonry. I was sure I was going to die right there, hiding behind a column. In a way, I did die right there and then. I remember giving out a cry of rage, and then nothing.

"I woke up at Saint Mungo's, strapped to a bed, bandaged from head to toe like a mummy. It took a massive load of potions to remember what had happened in between but it's a story for when we're exchanging war stories. The conclusion is that, all three Death Eaters were dead, and so was McGywer, one of our own. From then on, we three survivors were always together and wore the same crimson robes to symbolize our intent: 'no quarter expected, none to be given.'"

Dumbledore pushed his glasses back to the bridge of his crooked nose, "Morbid story, and tragic, too... But there's a question I need to ask before I retire to my bed: why are you here, Harry? Why here and why now?"

Harry sipped from the cup of tea that hadn't been there moments previously, and thought about the first question. He looked at the carpet, though he was seeing only through his mind's eye. The silence grew as minutes ticked by. After nn undetermined time of soul searching, he replied at last, "Why now is easy: just random. But why? You see, when you lose your humanity, you don't miss it as dearly as you think you would. At first, I tought I wanted to reclaim that long lost part of myself again. But now I see it clearer... To kill Him again... and again, and again! As many times and as painfully as I can! He hurt people he shouldn't have, and if I have to give up MY life so that they can live theirs, so be it!" He put the shaking china in his hands back on the table. "That's about my plan."

Dumbledore rubbed his beard seemingly lost in thought, then he began to talk slowly, "Killing is never the best way but let's forego that for the argument's sake. Are you sure you want to battle on two fronts? Forgive me if my sight was deceiving me, but those things we battled didn't seem like a 'Him' to me. Oh, and before I forget, who's this 'Him' that you think I should know?"

The only sound Harry could utter in his dumbfounded state was a 'Huh?'

"This 'Him' you're referring to, who's he?" Dumbledore reiterated.

"You don't really know? Lord Voldemort? The Dark Lord? You-Know-Who? He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named?" He listed Voldemort's many 'names' without seeing any sign of recognition on the old man's face. "Tom Riddle?" And he had a sign at the last one.

"So," Dumbledore cut in, "you wish to go after the Minister himself..."

Something was seriously fucked up... And it wasn't even about how the day had begun, and how it had ended...


End file.
